


Arpeggio

by Evaine



Category: Metallica
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Rock Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-11
Updated: 2010-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:12:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evaine/pseuds/Evaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alone, in a rehearsal studio, musicians will always be musicians.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arpeggio

His eyes are incredibly blue. He looks at me and beneath the desire and need, I see the trust. I don't smile, but I meet his gaze evenly, calmly… in control.

"'S okay? Not too tight?" I run my index finger over the soft skin of his inner wrist as he flexes his fingers.

"It's fine." His voice is rough and slightly hoarse and I find myself breathing a little faster, responding to that hoarseness. "Lars?" There's a question in his voice.

"Shhh." I lay my fingers over his lips and smile. "Just relax."

He nods slightly, his eyes still locked with mine.

My hands move down his body, along the arms stretched spread-eagled on either side of his head, over the rise and fall of his chest, lingering on the jutting bone of his hip, slipping along his thigh, coming to rest on the hardness of his kneecap. My finger traces small circles on the inside of his knee and his quick intake of breath causes the roots of the hair on the back of my neck to tingle.

"Did you…" I hear him swallow in the quiet of the room. "Did you lock the door?" Apprehension flutters on the edges of his words and I quickly reassure him with a nod and a smile. The sight of James' long frame spread along the length of a baby grand piano, helpless, naked and _needy_ is for my eyes alone.

My fingers trace the scar on his right knee, a souvenir from a knife fight in some nameless bar, and a shiver ripples over his body. That's what most people don't know… James loves to be touched. Needs it. Craves it. But seldom does he allow the barriers to lower enough to let it happen.

I drag my stubby fingernails upwards between his knee and the tender skin at the very top of his thigh. He hisses, his quad tightening in response. I trace the outline of the muscle with a fingertip, catching my bottom lip between my teeth. I love his body.

Reluctantly, I move away from the piano and turn my eyes from the tantalizing sight of James sprawled across its polished surface. My hands are just aching to touch him, but it's not quite time. I feel his gaze follow me, watching my every move, and I hear him shift, testing his bonds. I quell a smile. I know I've tied good knots in the amplifier cords—he's not going anywhere. He couldn't, even if he wanted to.

There's a metronome on the shelf on the far side of the room, waiting for someone to pick it up and place it on the piano to keep time. Idly, I flick the weighted stick and the little machine begins to tick, the noise loud in the silence. It adds to the atmosphere of anticipation gathering with the walls of the rehearsal room, or maybe it just suits the drummer in me.

My eyes dart over the shelves of items necessary in a room such as this. Improvisation is the name of the game and my mind works quickly—selecting, weighing… judging. Two small articles find their way into the breast pocket of the denim shirt that hangs open, baring my chest. Then my gaze lights on a slender, pointed stick with a knob on one end. This could be interesting. I pick it up and study it thoughtfully, then, decision made, slip the conductor's wand into the back pocket of my jeans where it nestles alongside the small bottle of lubricant I had brought from the hotel.

"All right then," I say, more to myself than to the man behind me. Spinning on one bare heel, I turn to face the piano, drawing in my breath in a single, swift inhalation.

Fuck, he's so damned _hot!_

My dick throbs at the image he presents; skin gleaming pale against the shiny black surface of the baby grand. He's watching me and I feel his gaze as a physical touch as it slides down the opening of my shirt, over my groin and along my legs.

The ticking of the metronome is loud in my ears as I watch him run his tongue slowly over his lower lip.

I return to the side of the piano and look down at him. Gently I draw my fingers through the cropped hair on the top of his head. His eyes are burning as they look up at me, burning with anticipation and need. My index finger curls, twisting into a strand of the longer hair that flows from the back of his head. I want to kiss him then, but the piano is too wide for me to reach across to the middle where his head lies. There will be plenty of time for kissing.

"Everything okay?" My voice is soft, but there's a rasp in it; a sound that he responds to with a smile of his own. "Look." I draw the conductor's baton from my back pocket and hold it up for his inspection.

His eyes widen slightly and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. I take the slim stick and trail the pointed end of it over his throat. His neck arches and a small sound vibrates through his lips. Slowly, I move downwards, over the curve of his shoulder and his muscles flex as the point drags along his skin. Along the tender skin of his underarm, down to his elbow, then along inside of his forearm, following a path of blue beneath his skin. His hands clench into fists for a short moment, testing the bonds again.

The ticking of the metronome is the perfect backbeat to the rise and fall of his chest.

"You have to wonder…" I try to keep my voice as conversational as possible. "You have to wonder what a thing like this is doing in a small recording studio. You think it's a British thing? It's not like they could fit an orchestra in here."

I move the wand to drag along his side and he moans softly. My jeans are uncomfortably tight now and I pull my other hand from his hair and undo them, dragging the fly down halfway, easing the pressure on my dick. His head turns towards me and he's licking his lips. My dick twitches.

The slender finger of wood slides over his hip, the pale beech barely a shade darker than his skin, and he shivers. Down, over his thigh, stopping only when I reach his bent knee. His hanging calf moves, pulling on the cord that encircles his ankle and he moans again, realising that he's not moving from where he is. It's not a moan of despair, by any means, but rather a moan that skitters along my nerve endings and settles deep in my balls, a moan speaking of want… of need.

And the metronome ticks.

"You took piano lessons, didn't you, James?" I ask, the tip of the baton now moving up the inside of one spread thigh. His muscles quiver.

"Uh… huh…" It's a breathless sound of affirmation.

"Scales and everything, I suppose…" The wand glides slowly up the underside of his erect cock and he bites back a groan. A single drop glistens on the tip of the engorged head and I long to lick it… taste it… taste him. That's not part of the plan—too soon, my little voice insists. I drag the side of the baton over the top of his dick and the drop disappears, smeared to a shining streak, still beckoning to me. _Too soon. Too soon._

The wand continues to move over his body, leaving filament thin red lines on his pale skin.

The metronome clicks steadily on.

I set the baton aside on the piano bench, its job done. A ruddy flush colours James' cheekbones and his breath is coming rapidly now. He strains again against the cords that hold him, the fingers of one hand extending towards me.

"Lars." My name, strangled and needy pushes through his lips.

"Hush now." I hoist myself up to sit in the curve of the piano, my fly down all the way now. My cock is so hard, wanting just to feel those stretching, flexing fingers around it. This is no easier on me.

I remove one of the articles from my breast pocket and look at it thoughtfully. The chrome finish glints. I wonder if the things I've heard are true; there's only one way to find out.

I look over at James and he's watching me, eyes hot between the sandy lashes. The trust is still there, beneath the fire my teasing has ignited. My gaze never leaving his, I bend slightly, just enough to reach the metal band around the top of the nearest piano leg.

 _*Krinnnnng*_

Eyes still locked with his, with a slow and even movement, I place the very end of the tuning fork into the indent of his belly button. He gasps and begins to writhe, arms and legs straining against the bonds. Small beads of sweat stand out on his forehead. The tip of my tongue slips out to run over my upper lip, my dick throbbing at the sight of him. I bend again.

 _*Krinnnnng*_

My bottom lip caught between my teeth, I touch the vibrating metal to the hardened nub of one nipple.

"Fuck!" He arches up, arms and legs jerking convulsively. He gasps for air, eyes wide, and I smile. Guess the tales were true.

"Fuck… again… please…." His voice is raspy over the fading hum of the tuning fork. "Please." How can I deny him?

The fork sings out again and the metronome continues to tick.

We're both sweating now. I lay the tuning fork aside to shrug out of my shirt, but not before retrieving the final item from my pocket. I turn it over between my fingers and it flashes green with each tumble.

"Lars?" Breathing heavily, he calls softly to me, taking my attention away from the acrobatics I'm coaxing from the small piece of plastic. I turn and give him a reassuring smile. A moment later, I've straddled his hips, my jeans loose and open, my cock heavy and hard… as heavy and hard as his own cock is just beneath it. Should I choose to bend over just a few inches, they would rub together. The thought catches the breath in my throat. _Not yet. No, not yet._

  
The metronome is loud in my ears.

"What do they call this? A ple…" I frown slightly and press the thin edge of plastic against his breastbone. "Plectrum? Is that it? Plectrum?" I begin to drag it along his skin. His chest pushes up.

"It's a fuckin' guitar pick." His growl turns into a soft groan as I rise over the curve of his pec.

"Yeah, that's what it is." I agree, dragging the edge of the pick over his nipple. His groan is much louder this time, his head arching back. I can feel his body tense beneath me, pulling on the restraints enough to make them creak. I flick over the nipple again.

He hisses and I lean over just a little more. His hips roll and we both gasp as the heads of our cocks brush against each other.

"Lars… wanna… wanna touch." His whisper is desperate, his fingers clenching and unclenching.

"Oh no, not yet." My voice is soft as I apply the edge of the pick to his other nipple. His face slackens into another moan. Fascinated, I continue to tease and coax—who knew that such a tiny thing, a small piece of green plastic, could produce such intense results.

Eventually, I draw the pick down the middle of his torso, leaving a thin white line in its wake. His head raises and he fixes me with an urgent look from beneath hooded eyelids.

"Harder." he whispers. "Harder, dammit."

Biting my lip, I drag the pick over the same path, this time leaving a rising red welt. His head falls back and a shuddering groan shakes him as his chest rises, and his hips grind beneath me. Again and again, the plectrum leaves its mark until he's writhing, pulling at the cords that hold him down; the tendons on his neck strain, glistening with a heavy sheen of sweat.

Rising up on my knees, still straddling him, I lean over, rest the weight of my body on my supporting arms and look down into his face. His breath is warm against my cheeks and he's panting, his eyes pleading with me to give him the release he craves. Slowly, I lower my mouth onto his and slide my tongue between his parted lips, swallowing his small moan of surrender.

His moustache scrapes against my skin. His mouth is warm and wet and welcoming as my tongue explores its contours. The kiss deepens and lips crush against teeth as our tongues plunge and curl against each other. His moan fills my mouth as I bend my arms and lower myself to rub against his chest. Skin slides over skin; hot, slick with sweat. I lay atop him as we kiss, my hands raking through the tangles of his hair, my lips bruising and being bruised along with his, my hips grinding my dick against his belly and the hardness of his erection.

The metronome ticks on.

My jeans fly across the room, but not before I rescue the tube of lubricant from the back pocket. With slow, deliberate movements, I coat his dick, my fingers stroking and teasing, slipping down to run over his balls and he groans again, his hips thrusting up to meet my hand.

His eyes widen when I squirt more of the lube into my hand and reach behind me. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, arms straining against the cords as I ready myself. My dick is throbbing at the naked want that lines his face. Were he loose, it'd be a done deal, but this is my show, not his.

I drop the lube over the side of the piano and with a low groan that I can't swallow, begin to lower myself onto him. The amplifier cords creak against the wood of the piano and he catches his breath as I take him all in.

"Fu-u-ck."

The metronome keeps perfect time as we find our rhythm.

@@@@@

"Gonna put pinstripes on it." James' voice near my ear startled me from my decade-old memories.

"We just bought the fuckin' thing!" I looked up at him. The brand new baby grand, costing thousands of dollars, hadn't been in HQ for more than an hour and he was already planning modifications.

"Green ones," he added with a grin, brushing against me as he edged past, heading towards the piano the others had gathered around to admire. As he passed, he pressed something into my hand.

"You're insane." I sighed and shook my head in resignation. The man was a terror with a can of spray paint.

I opened my hand.

Plectrums, they call them. I smiled. Plectrums.  


**Author's Note:**

> This one is especially for Heather, who wondered about musical accessories in chat one day. Hope this fills that void a little, H! Thank so much to Ang for the wonderful edit, even though she was feeling under the weather. Ang, I'd be lost without you! And to Joolz, for the support, inspiration and encouragement—I couldn't have written this one without you!


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